


Trade

by pulpedeva



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: 1930s, Alley Sex, Canon Related, During Canon, Family Issues, Implied Sexual Content, London, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Prostitution, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulpedeva/pseuds/pulpedeva
Summary: Ralph ends up in Soho in London in 1933 after being sacked from school.





	Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deliarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliarium/gifts).



The 3.45 Great Western Railway pullman from Exeter to Paddington, pulled into its final destination as dusk was falling. Ralph paused only to give the other inhabitant of his compartment the most cursory glance, straightened the collar of his coat and stepped onto the platform.

He made his way briskly along to the gates, although, it was impossible to be truly brisk. People were everywhere, porters pushing trolleys piled with luggage, children looking sick after a day of obvious over-indulgence on the seafronts and promenades around Barnstaple. And although he might march purposefully along the platform he had never been to London, possessed just one suitcase of a few clothes, a couple of books, only a few pounds in his notecase and nowhere to go. It was a wild idea to be here.

Once out onto Praed Street, he looked up and down the busy thoroughfare packed with anonymous faces and felt for an instant, rather alone. In his pocket was the address which had been pressed into his hands an hour earlier, in the cramped confines of the gentlemen’s lavatory. He felt inside and touched the paper briefly. It was a possibility. He brought out the address and his tobacco at the same time. He was unsure how far to go with this one. He was not averse to a few nights in the relative comfort of a flat in Piccadilly, as the scrawl suggested. But what more would it mean? Ralph didn’t want meaning and obligation. For the first time in a while, he was rather sick of taking it all and expecting nothing in return. But it wouldn’t do. He deposited the address into the nearest dustbin and turned his attention to rolling up, finally lighting and inhaling a huge lungful or smoke.

 

It had gone quite well until midnight.

The procedure was always the same. A look, little more than a raised brow, although occasionally it was barely that. Perhaps just a tilt of the head, or a gaze being held for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The man would walk out first, and Ralph would follow a few minutes later.

Sometimes, as he was being pushed up roughly against the wall of a Soho alley, for they didn’t always expect to be the ones being shoved, he’d think that perhaps he ought to have borrowed that pound off Odell after all.  
But he’d got better at it now. He knew what to charge, to keep his eye out for agent provocateurs who worked the areas waiting to call in the Morality Crusaders and the Constabulary, to avoid being beaten or left with any visible injuries to his face that might put off his next assignation. He’d been careful for weeks now.

The alley was lit only by the lamp at the far end of Endell Street. It was dark and relatively quiet outside the club, excepting the heavy panting of his companion whom Ralph had in one hand with a hard grip, the other braced against the brickwork.

Ralph’s mind had wandered. He cursed himself for it afterwards. Thinking of rents and totting up shillings, he’d allowed himself to be caught off guard. The hand had been caressing his hair, whispering to him; those endearments that Ralph had become more used to by now, disgust mixed with an odd tenderness. This one was saying, in a suppressed groan, “You pretty boy, pretty, dirty little bastard,” in between heavy grunts. He was pulling quite hard on Ralph’s hair, which Ralph didn’t mind too much, so that when the hand was removed for an instant and the punch came, he was unprepared. The fist fell heavily on the side of his head and for a few seconds he was dazed and stupid, feeling the unpleasant crunch of bone against brick and the contact of his face with the wall.

It wasn’t something, he accepted, that he hadn’t needed to deal with before. He was young, fairly muscular, although slight and not tall, and perfectly capable of twisting the arm of some over ardent suitor until it hurt. But this time, there was a spiteful thrust to the blow which had none of the usual rough and tumble in it as an overture. It was intended to really hurt him.  
His instincts were fortunately intact. He only drank when he wasn’t on the job. He’d learnt very quickly that although inebriation might smooth the way for a shedding of inhibitions, it left him vulnerable and woolly when the time came to take payment. Now, he demanded payment up front and wouldn’t drink.

But still, he had allowed this to happen. He had already been half-way to his knees, so the effort to grab the man and pull himself back up again, was enormous. His companion was large and meaty and heavy. The pair of them were locked together in a violent embrace, all the more ridiculous, as it was carried out in silence. Ralph’s head was throbbing and he could feel the warm trickle of something along his cheekbone.  
He managed to stagger to his feet at last, grasping the man’s collar and shoving his own face forward. “What the hell did you do that for, you fucking idiot?” Ralph’s voice was low although he was furious and could only put the force of his anger into his hands as they dug into the other man’s collarbone. For although he was to a certain extent, the victim, one look from a passer-by at the wrong angle and he’d be the one up before the Magistrates’ court.

For a moment the man said nothing but continued his heavy breathing in Ralph’s face. Then he leaned in close to Ralph’s ear, still gripping Ralph’s arms painfully, but Ralph, perhaps expecting this was a game that had to be played, relaxed slightly.

The voice was soft and wheedling but the words were harsh. “You’re a filthy bugger, aren’t you?” and it was hard to tell whether this was still some sort of prelude.

“Hold on. Stop. Stop it.” Ralph held him back as forcefully as he could. “You haven’t paid me for this.” Attempting to assert control, he whispered into the man’s ear, “If you want this- it’s extra.”

For a few seconds it stopped him but his face moved closer to Ralph’s again and he said, “I’ve paid you for whatever I like, you little pervert, and if I want to push about a pansy like you, you shan’t stop me.”

Ralph was still trying to remove his arms from the man’s grip, he said quite loudly, “I certainly shall stop you, you sick bastard.”. But despite or perhaps because of this assertion, the man seemed to grow more aroused beneath him. Hazell flickered in Ralph’s mind. Of course, some men liked this sort of thing.

And Ralph could sense that the crude combination of violence and castigation seemed to do the trick, for the man pushed himself hard against Ralph’s thigh and was momentarily incapacitated as he moved beneath him. He kept his eyes closed and when he’d finished, the fury and malice seemed to have drained away and he fell upon Ralph’s neck and kissed it.

The man disappeared down the alley, buttoning his fly and straightening his shoulders and left Ralph to think how peculiar it all was, that it could turn on a penny; violence and passion, dosed with a healthy measure of self-loathing, which Ralph could identify if not quite accept, could change the dynamics of a meeting from danger to some kind of satisfying resolution.

 

Across the bar, under heavy velvet drapes decorated with stars and dragons, Robert watched the evening’s entertainment consisting of a delightfully handsome young man, stripped to the waist, who passed burning papers over his upper body. It was past midnight and he’d come straight from the theatre for a quick one or perhaps even a slow one, if the right one came along. The Caravan Club was one of those fantastical new Soho haunts, barely open a few weeks, but full of members, who, like him, were of the artistic and bohemian bent.

He ordered a pink gin and flipped open his cigarette case. Within a moment another man had stepped forward to light it for him. They exchanged brief looks. Things worked fast here. That was how Robert liked it. He opened his mouth to speak but his eye was caught by the entrance of a young man.

The young man, more of a boy really, was looking about him quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. He found the bar and with one hand on the counter, straightened his tie and touched the side of his face. Robert could see it looked grazed and sore. The face was familiar, unplaceable at this moment, but his fair hair was pretty and he could see from a few feet away, his light, intensely blue eyes.

The boy put his hand to his head again.

“Goodness, I know you! We’ve met before.”

Looking straight at him, the blonde boy said, “I don’t think so.” He turned but Robert’s hand was on his arm quickly.

“Yes, a few weeks ago, I think. We met in the-,“ here he paused for a moment, “we were both journeying to Paddington.”

The boy held his gaze a little arrogantly. It was hard to pull off arrogance when you’d clearly been at the receiving end of a bit of a beating and Robert liked him all the more for it. But, “Perhaps,” was all that he would allow.

“Come now, you look like you could do with a drink. Barman, same again.” He held his own glass up.

Still the boy wouldn’t smile but he allowed the gin to be place before him without waiving it away.

“You never told me your name. What do they call you?”

After a short struggle, he acquiesced. “Ralph Lanyon,” he said and held out his hand formally.

"Well then Ralph, you’ll have no objection to joining me as you know my name already. Unless you’ve forgotten it and that would be a blow,” Robert smiled charmingly at him, but the boy’s face was serious and rather severe.

He picked up his glass and downed the drink quickly. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he said at last.

Robert evaluated his profile and then coming to a decision abruptly, said, “Come home with me.”

“Alright.” Robert had expected more resistance but perhaps underneath the bravado the boy was rather shaken up.

 

The room was pretty shabby, in the sort of down at heel, scruffily bohemian way Ralph had decided usually meant the occupant was either extremely well-heeled or extremely down and out. In this case it was most certainly the former.

“So, here we are.” Robert motioned to the armchair and when Ralph still stood reluctantly, pushed him firmly into it.

“Right, thanks.” Ralph sat awkwardly while Robert stood over him.

“Another drink? You need something to take the edge off, I think.” He looked down at his face at the swollen, rough mark on Ralph’s cheek, but said nothing and turned to the drink cabinet instead. “I’m not going to offer to tend to the wounded like Florence Nightingale,” he smiled at him, “but if you want some iodine and a cloth, I’m sure there’s one somewhere.”

“Oh, actually, no thanks, I’d better be off.” Ralph touched the side of his face and moved to get up. He didn’t like to be fussed over and now that he was returning to himself and the queasiness had left him, he wanted to be gone. His head hurt and he could still taste blood where he had bitten the inside of his mouth, but he rose anyway. “Just tell me where your bathroom is. I shan’t stay.” He added, “Thanks awfully. It was kind of you.”

Robert stood before him and blocked his path. “How old are you, Ralph?”

“Old enough,” he said stiffly.

Robert caught his eye and laughed, “Come now, silly boy, don’t be so stern,” he patted him on the arm. “Sit down and relax and tell me what on earth happened to you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather be going. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came.” Ralph held his hand out.

Robert ignored the outstretched hand and continued to pour out two glasses of whisky. “So, you’re no more than twenty I’d say-”

“Nineteen.”

“So, what’s a nineteen year old public school boy doing renting in Soho?” He handed Ralph the glass of whisky, which he took, although he continued to stand.

“I’m not at school.” Robert was watching him with an irritating mixture of amusement and curiosity on his face. It was the look which had interested Ralph as they’d sat opposite each other in the carriage and Ralph had caught the expression in his hazel eyes.

“Oh? And you’re parents? Any help from Pater in this little endeavour of yours to be thoroughly addled and disreputable before you’re twenty? No? I thought as much. So-,” Robert found his case and extracted two cigarettes, handing one to Ralph, “Where do they think you are?”

Ralph took the cigarette and laughed. It sounded more bitter and less flippant than he had intended. “Missing in action.” He finished his glass quickly and lit up.

“Steady, I don’t want an incapacitated schoolboy on my conscience.”

“I told you. I’m not a schoolboy.” He put the glass down on the side table and looked at Robert. “You didn’t take me for one last time.” He caught his eye and moved a little closer

“Oh well, I wouldn’t like to think that you’d got the wrong impression about me the other day. Trysts in public lavatories aren’t quite my thing.”

Ralph paused. “You were convincing about it though.”

Robert straightened up. “I’m an actor, my dear. I can be as convincing as need be.”

“Oh. I see.” It wasn’t the need to prove himself, Ralph was sure, but where flattery may have failed, this had the opposite effect. He closed the distance between them both.

Robert held him back for a moment. “It’s all very well being full of schoolboy enthusiasm-,” he began,

"Oh, well, you did insist that I was one.”

“-but, what you need to do, is learn a little more refinement.” Robert pushed him back and moved him towards the bedroom. ”We’re not in a Soho alley now. There’s no need to rush.”

The bedroom was dark and the light stayed off. They undressed quickly and once under the sheets they lay together for a while with nothing but the contact of their bodies against each other. “I think I like you better when you’re not talking,” Ralph said and smiled into the darkness.

“Oh good, talking wasn’t what I had in mind.” Robert moved onto him and kissed him.

This was neither usually requested nor given. So that it was unexpectedly easy for Ralph to give way to his more romantic leanings. He kissed him back and in the bed, with clean sheets and the warm pressure of Robert’s body on his, Ralph felt, despite the pain in his ribs and the taste of blood in his mouth, if not quite happiness, then at least relief.

 

Ralph didn’t like to make a habit of outstaying his welcome. The morning sun was already at the window and he’d promised himself that he’d be gone before dawn. He’d overslept. Nevertheless, his companion slept on beside him, so he took the opportunity to lean out of the bed, feeling the throb of pain in his temple and ribs, and reach for his bags. They’d been folded somewhere in the middle of the night, and it was a while before he could find them, but at last he extracted his tobacco and papers from the pocket.

Leaning back against the headboard, the sheet around his waist, he pulled the tobacco about, concentrating on filling the papers and finally satisfied, lit and inhaled deeply.

Across the floor were the dregs of whatever they’d been drinking, some sort of malt, he forgot which. The depleted state of the bottles explained how he’d managed, against his better judgement, to be lolling around in someone else’s bed instead of back in his own digs in St.Giles. His head ached but it was better if he lay back slightly. He continued to inhale the smoke, eyes closed against the sharp sunlight.

“You’re still here?” Ralph looked over as Robert sat up and reached over to take the cigarette from him. Robert took a long drag and gave him and contemplative look. “I thought you hated playing happy families?”

Ralph gave him a look, entirely wasted, as he ignored him and passed the cigarette back. He took it. “I’m going, don’t think I haven’t got better things to be doing.”

Robert smiled at him. “Don’t feel you have to go yet, if you’d rather stay. I wouldn’t like to be ungallant and kick you out.”

Ralph said nothing, rose and started gathering his clothes. He turned and asked, perhaps a little shyly, “Will you be at the Caravan later?”

“Probably not and I’d advise you not to. Unless you’re still determined to end up on a stretcher. Better try the Grapes, if I were you. The crowd there is far less bohemian.” He pushed his heavy dark hair away from his face and sat back. “Really- better things?”

Robert gestured to him and Ralph sat back carefully on the edge of the bed. “Oh, much better.” Ralph wouldn’t be drawn and debated getting up again, but in truth, the day stretched before him aimlessly. He sat still.

“Come on. Spill. It’s hours before they need me at the Haymarket. You were going to tell me how you ended up as a renter. You never finished the tale last night.” He looked at him, still smiling, “matters took rather a different turn.”  
“Oh, it’s not a lovely story.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it were. Wait-“ He picked up his case of cigarettes again and settled back. “You needn’t worry that I’ll be swept up in the romance of it all.” He flipped open the case and took out a cigarette carefully.

“Oh, it’s nothing like that, but-.” Ralph moved over to him. The usual way he stopped idle chatter would work well enough. He gave it a shot.

Coming close he pressed up against him and Robert allowed himself to be moved around as Ralph stirred against him, but the cigarette wasn’t extinguished and after a while he pushed him away gently. “You haven’t answered me yet.”

"What were you asking?”

“What do you make? A few shillings a pop?” Ralph sighed heavily but Robert persisted. “If it’s not for money, then why?”

Ralph pulled away and tried to stare him down, but in the end relented. “Alright,” he said. He supposed Robert wouldn’t care for cotton wool and besides, he knew why. “Spite. Out of spite, I suppose.”

“Good grief, my dear, that sounds like a dreadfully middle class complex you’re nurturing. Unless that’s just an excuse and really, you thoroughly enjoy it. Getting beaten to a pulp and pushed about, that is.” He added, “No shame in that, I suppose, if it’s your thing.”

Ralph stiffened a little. “Oh, no need to look so piqued. It’s no matter to me what you are or what you like.” Robert seemed to be examining some thought. “I’m not particular.”

Suddenly, Ralph’d had enough. He was tired of this easy disparagement and even the underlying tenderness made him feel inconsequential and childish. He turned his head away and stared down at his hands while he rolled another cigarette. But when he looked up, as he was licking the paper, Robert was looking at him with something like affection. “Careful,” Ralph said, suddenly feeling cold and unkind. “I shouldn’t want you developing higher feelings for me.”

"Oh, what a vulgar thought! I wouldn’t like to waste my higher feelings on just anybody.”

Ralph laughed harshly. “Nor I.” He didn’t let himself think and kept his mind empty. They lay back in silence for a while. “When I think of their faces-” Ralph began, “Oh, hang it all, I couldn’t care less.”

“But you do care, don’t you?” Robert leaned towards him and gave him a kiss that was strangely paternal. Ralph turned away quickly so he couldn’t see his face, but Robert pulled him back. “Tell me. I’ll keep my mouth shut. And then when you’ve got it out of your system you can give me a good fuck and then we’ll call it quits.”

Ralph looked at him and said slowly, “It was a difference of opinion.”

 

The difference of opinion had lasted a few hours. And was over abruptly. Ralph had left the drawing room and climbed the stairs to the sound of his mother sobbing and his father’s voice no longer raised but a dropped to a low, angry rumble.

He lay on his bed, still in the uniform of the Upper Sixth, and considered his options. His arrival into Gillingham station had been late enough to entertain a forlorn hope that the household would be asleep. Thinking he’d left it for a couple of months as they parted for the Lent term only a few weeks prior, he felt quite sour being back again so soon. And under such circumstances.

The front of the house a few hours earlier had told an unfortunate tale. The lamps had burnt in the drawing room in a blaze of indignation, no slipping past anyone and upstairs. His knock was answered by a pink faced housekeeper with downcast eyes. Words had evidently been exchanged between his parents, at a volume high enough to ensure that the matter was no longer entirely within the family.

The telegram must have arrived yesterday, giving a day to swell their resentful outrage. Of course, he should have gone straight to Southampton. But overtaken by a sense of duty, to his mother at least if not his father, he’d felt that some explanation was due.

Now that all the pent-up adrenaline which had been building, had been released, he felt weary and a little low. Without the euphoria of anger or self-justification, which he had held back because he was as guilty, more in fact, than they would understand or know, he now felt flat. He didn’t like to give into sentiment and regret. He didn’t even particularly care that he’d been rebuked and sacked from the school. And the scandal, well, however resounding, he was out of it now. He’d been forced to go straight from his study to the station. No time for any sort of goodbye. He wasn’t going to miss any of that lot anyway. Not Treviss, well maybe Treviss a little, but certainly not Hazell. Not Odell.

He got up and pulled out his tobacco and set himself to rolling a cigarette. Having finished, he went to the window and opened it up, feeling despite the breakdown of civility between his parents and himself, that he wouldn’t go as far as to ruin the room against his mother’s wishes. Leaning out a little, he could see that his parent’s bedroom light had been put out and the house was in darkness. He lit the cigarette. The tobacco had cost him a shilling. With that money blown he had now only a few shillings left. Where was he going with that?

He wouldn’t wait around for his trunk to arrive. In order to pack he needed something small. There was a case somewhere in the back of the wardrobe, a travelling one. He’d use that. And pack just a few things. It nearly raised a smile, the thought of his few things, as if he were a dilettante selecting choice pieces for the Grand Tour. He barely possessed more than a few things as it were. Nothing of note, certainly nothing that would fill a small case to inconvenience. And he had next to no money.

His father had stated that no talk of allowances was to be broached. There was to be no more contact between his father and this errant son. He’d have to leave and start again somewhere else with no moral or financial support. He didn’t allow himself to think of Cambridge or anything of the things that had been removed from him. What had Jepson put in the telegram? It must have been enough to explain without being too explicit, what had caused the previously lauded head boy to be sent down so precipitously. Gross indecency? Inappropriate behaviour?

Ralph leant out of the window and saw again, his father’s furious red face. His mother had stood aside merely looking tearful. He allowed that she at least, had managed to suppress any distaste. Or perhaps she had not fully understood the implications of his dismissal. His father had understood well enough though. It was a wonder how little had to be said to catch the jist of it all. His father had seemed to know without the need for too much elaboration on Ralph’s part, just what had been suggested. Perhaps he had always had his doubts about his son.

Ralph packed quickly although the night would still stretch out for hours before he could be gone. His left his uniform hanging in his wardrobe and put on his only other suit. When he finished, he lay down on the bed again and closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.

There was the man in Southampton. He’d been friendly enough. Even with the depleted finances that his journey home had cost him, he may just have enough to get there and look him up. But the job aboard a schooner had been promised in that vague, ebullient way of a drinking confidence and may well amount to nothing. Where would he go?

 

Robert had moved over to put a hand Ralph’s shoulder. “Oh, I see, so that fool housemaster sacked you, dear mother and father couldn’t bear the thought of their little blonde boy being a bugger and booted you out-,“

“Something like that, yes.”

"-and you got to London, pausing only to meet a dashingly handsome actor on the way to your own private Sodom and Gomorrah in a Soho back alley. So, what happened in between?”

“Well, I found the Black Cat in Old Compton Street first.”

“Ah,” said Robert.

 

Sitting inside the Black Cat, cigarette burning, sipping bitter tea, Ralph had begun at last, to notice the predominance of young men walking in and out. He could tell, although in certain matters he was still innocent, that these young men were not the type that his mother would have approved of as friends. Not that they were in drag, or especially flamboyant, but simply he noted as he caught one’s eye, that he was aware of them and they him.

A man sat down opposite him without asking, and Ralph looked up irritably.

“You look like you’re new to this place? Visiting? Staying?” He said taking in Ralph’s small case.

“Not really,” said Ralph, determined to be aloof, “just passing through.” He took another drag of his cigarette and looked down at his cup.

“Come on, no need to be like that. I was going to ask if you’d like a proper drink?” The man looked at him again. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that you don’t seem the type to be around these parts.”

“No?” said Ralph a little impatiently. “Is there a type? Don’t answer that. The less said the better.” He pushed his cigarette into the ashtray and rose.

“Slow down, dear.” The man said laid a hand on Ralph’s arm. “I was just pointing out, that some of us in here, are around for something that may not be on offer elsewhere,” he said meaningfully. “Perhaps you are too?”

Ralph was not quite stupid enough to plead ignorance. “Oh? And would you be one of them?”

“I might be.” The man held his gaze. He was not unattractive, not much older than Ralph and his voice although faintly mannered was not unpleasant. “Depends.”

“On what?” The man was going to have to spell it out further before Ralph would decide to make it easy. But it appeared to him with crystal clarity at that moment, that what he had given away, enjoyed even, for free in the train’s lavatory, he could make people pay up for.

At times like these, Ralph thought, faced with a perhaps unpalatable choice, it would have been pleasant to hold some sort of mawkish picture in his mind of his family, to steel his resolve in one way or the other. It may have helped. But it didn’t. He hadn’t any particularly happy home memories to fall back on. He wondered what other people did. Did they have a store of them, like old photos, of one parent or another? He had instead, the image of his father’s livid and reddened face, and his mother’s timid, restrained one, the barrier overcome for one brief moment, to press a ten shilling note into his hand as he left that morning. But it wasn’t enough.

“You’re saying,” said Ralph as coolly as he could, “that one would get paid for this sort of thing?” Well, he was reliant on himself now and nobody else. Perhaps in other circumstances, it may have worked to produce a sentimental swell of elation. It certainly made him determined to grasp what was on offer. His self-loathing, always held in check by rigorous honesty that could pass for arrogance, spilt out in an unexpected way. He would give it away for money. Whatever he was, he’d prove it a thousand times.

As he was thinking this, the image of Odell sprung into his mind. There wasn’t much to it. It wasn’t even a thought of the very brief kiss before he’d left school, which was no more than a quick brush of lips. It was simply his face at the moment, when he had stood inside Ralph’s study.

He got up and followed the man out of the café and onto the street outside.

 

“Oh heavens! It’s my fault you’ve ended up on the game?” Robert’s hand was over his shoulder again and he was laughing.

“I didn’t say that.” Ralph shrugged his arm off.

“And this friend of yours, the one you mention-,“

“Odell?” There was little point playing games.

“Yes, him. So, you were thinking of Odell, whilst watching the renters come in and out? In fact, at the very moment you’d decided to make a whore of yourself!” He laughed and smiled at Ralph affectionately. “Some analyst would have a field day with that one.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

“I’m ribbing you. Don’t take it to heart.”

“It was purely platonic. Sort of comrades in arms. Nothing more than that. And it was just unexpected that it popped into my head at that moment.”

“Really? No need to sound defensive.” Ralph had shifted away but Robert pulled him back again. “So, my dear. We’ve established that you’re a self-hating, ex-public schoolboy with a proclivity for cock, little money and no prospects. What now?”

“I continue doing this. You’ve no objections, I expect?”

“None, have you?”

Ralph didn’t answer. As he had found recently, difficult questions need not be examined when other distractions were on offer. He put his hand on Robert’s thigh and moved to lie on top of him. Robert was thoughtful enough to allow the hand to move lower and for a while the conversation was curtailed.

Afterwards, Robert pushed Ralph’s hair away from his face and examined it. “Well, I think we’re even now.” The mark on Ralph’s cheek was still red. He touched it gently. “You need looking after. No, don’t argue,” he added as Ralph shook his head. “You can stay with me whenever you want. My land lady knows all about artistic types. She won’t ask.”

“I don’t think by any stretch, one would assume I was an artistic type. An invert maybe,” but feeling a little churlish he added, “It’s not that I don’t like you. But I have my own digs,” he said, thinking of the rather squalid room in St. Giles Circus, “And I don’t need another father, thanks.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you. You know better, I’m sure.” Robert looked at Ralph and for a while neither said anything. But then he said suddenly, “Don’t waste yourself.”

Eventually, giving him a look which could be taken as mildly affectionate, Ralph said, “I don’t intend to. I’m only a nineteen year old schoolboy after all. I’ve got the rest of my life to be getting on with.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Deliarium. From the request for something about what Ralph did instead of going to Southampton. I've taken some assumptions about time spent as a renter and blown them into this! I hope you like it! ;)
> 
> Note on historical accuracy. 
> 
> The Caravan Club in Endell Street, Soho, opened and closed in 1934. A year after Ralph’s sojourn to London. For the purposes of this story I’ve made it all happen in 1933 instead. It was an extremely liberal place with men dancing openly together and over 400 members until it was raided and closed almost immediately after it’s opening.
> 
> The Black Cat was a Soho café frequented by bohemians and rent boys in the 1930’s as remembered by Quentin Crisp.
> 
> The train from Exeter to Paddington was one of the main lines across England.


End file.
